


The View from Below

by fawatson



Category: Frontier Wolf - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7092889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hilarion’s perspective on the Praepositus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The View from Below

**Author's Note:**

  * For [templemarker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/gifts).



> **Characters Requested:** Alexios Flavius Aquila, Hilarion
> 
>  **Prompt:** I don't have particular preferences for this challenge; I love all of Sutcliff's works, and all the stories in this challenge, so please go how the spirit moves you.I prefer realism and historical detail, romance and gen, het and slash--all is good with me. I do not care for AUs in Sutcliff; I'm good with alternate scenarios or canon divergent, I'm just not real interested in Esca sporting wings or Murna going through a Divergenty Choosing Ceremony. I love plot, and I also love emotional introspection and relationship development.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.
> 
>  **Author’s Notes:** In chapter 8, when Castellum first gets word that the Praepositus is coming to inspect, Hilarion says, “That will mean he’s the keen type….That kind’s always the worst.”

He had been right: the Praepositus was _just_ that keen kind who was always sure he was right and rubbed everyone the wrong way with it. He looked down his nose at the wolf cloaks. Hilarion determined to keep out of his way as much as possible. This Praepositus was the inflexible type, much the same as that one who had persecuted the Christos in Judaea, centuries before. Hilarion had read the diary of his long dead ancestor, Marcellus, who had had the thankless task of appeasing local subjects after Pilate had been recalled. For the first time he was pleased he _had_ been passed over and command had gone to Alexios. Better him to smooth over the man’s inevitable irritation at rough frontier ways. It would be a long three days. 

When, that first evening, Montanus ordered the Lady Stone slighted, Hilarion knew it for a bad omen. Normally Rome adopted local deities; at the very least they tolerated them. Heathen goddess she might be; but that did not mean she was without power (nor without anger). She would know who it was who gave the order. It was not even as if he did it out of her hearing; he had spoken openly to the Ducenarius on his way back into the fort after watching the ponies watered. Undoubtedly his fate was sealed: it just remained to see exactly what She had in store for him, and how many other unfortunates it would bring down too. 

It was Lucius, quiet observant Lucius, who pointed out the start of it to Hilarion. The two Centenarius were also busy with the riding presentation, but in giving orders behind the scenes, not watching it from the front with visiting dignitaries. “He looks as if he’s just been served sour wine,” commented Lucius quietly, when they had a moment to pause. 

“What, Alexios!” Hilarion’s surprise was evident. Surely he could see how men and ponies had taken fire tonight; they were giving their all for pride in Castellum and loyalty to their commander. 

“No, the Praepositus,” corrected Lucius. 

And so it was. Periodic glances at the Praepositus showed his expression change from merely sour to hauteur and contempt. At first Alexios seemed not to notice, caught up as he was in the excitement of the men's riding prowess. But as the display drew to a close, even while he congratulated men and bestowed ribbons on those who had shown outstanding skill, Hilarion could see Alexios’ discomforted realisation all was not well. 

That horses were bound up in her vengeance seemed inevitable once Cunorix made his request for the golden bay stallion’s service. Hilarion sat still and silent, one at the table, but too junior to be noticed (he hoped) as the Praepositus insulted Cunorix’s Shadow. He heartily wished himself elsewhere – wished the Praepositus elsewhere – and left, deeply relieved to be away when the horn sounded for Second Watch. There was trouble brewing. 

The next day was busy: organising patrols, double-checking kit, supervising mess, drilling, practising, exercising…. It was good to be busy. Occasionally his attention strayed to the Principia office where the Ordo Commander was closeted with the Praepositus. Yes, paperwork _would_ be that man’s strength. Firmly he disciplined his thoughts: frontier legions did not mean unruly legions. Keeping busy was definitely the right thing. 

That night found him seated between Lucius and the Praepositus’ chair, watching the weapons dances. Once again the man was unimpressed. He caught his breath as the Optio approached with spears. Would Alexios? The Prick would be sure to disapprove; but if the Commander gave in to the disapproval, the men would think less of him. He muttered a quick prayer to Mithros under his breath in that moment of Alexios’ hesitation, but took care to hide his little sigh of relief from the Praepositus as the Ducenarius joined the final Dance. 

The next day dawned misty and cold, with thin grey light that showed the sun’s reluctance to rise. Hilarion buried his head under the covers trying to pretend this was false dawn and he had another hour; Lucius would cover for him. Except the noise of camp held a different timbre from usual. 

“Sir!” The knock on his door was urgent. Hilarion surfaced from under the covers as the Optio shook him. The look on the man’s face told him the Lady’s vengeance had begun. 

“Yes?”

“The Commander wants you in the Principia office, Sir.”

“What’s happened?” 

“Praepositus’ horse strayed when the ponies went to water this morning.” 

“Strayed?” Hilarion was buckling on his sword. Stolen, more like, he thought; but he kept that thought private. The Lady's retribution was at work; and mortal man could only see where it took them.

In the office he kept strict military stance, took his orders and carried them out sharply. Lucius was despatched with a troop in the direction of Cunorix’s hall; his diplomacy would stand them in good stead. The missing groom was found and punishment duty set once he had sobered sufficiently. And, once again, Hilarion kept busy – wary eyes straying periodically in the direction of the Praepositus – but busy, always and visibly. The stall was ready and waiting when the golden bay returned. He would not have believed it possible for the frown on Montanus’ face to deepen; but the state of the poor horse’s mouth brought bitter words to his mouth. Hilarion rooted in his chest until he found a salve he had brought north from his last leave in Eberacum; and silently offered it to the irate Commander. No thanks, of course (but he was gentle with the stallion, so there must be some good in the man). 

Castellum was bitterly cold that night. On his way to the latrines in the red light of dawn, Hilarion slipped on some ice, falling heavily. He was changing from muddy tunic when, once again, the noise of a disrupted camp alerted him to problems. He pulled his second best tunic hastily over his head and went to be briefed. Hilarion knew it would be bad. 

Yesterday the Praepositus had been boiling hot with rage; today he was cold as ice. That fancy horse: why _bring_ such a beast north of the wall? It asked for trouble. Had he agreed to the service, the stallion could have earned the Wolves much goodwill. To refuse (nay, not just refuse: belittle) had damaged relationships the fort relied on. The forerunners had gone long since but Hilarion detailed more men for the pursuit, with back-up ponies as replacements when the first mounts tired. A chill of foreboding shivering down his spine; whatever the outcome, this could not end well. 

Never before had he so felt the need to be seen to be occupied. Hilarion prided himself on getting things done without obvious effort. Not for him the hustle and bustle, or shouted orders, of other Centenarius he had served with in other legions before joining the frontier. But the Praepositus’ anger was palpable; and somehow it just wasn’t enough to complete his duties, smoothly, efficiently, without seeming haste. That man’s eyes watched everything with bitter hostility. Normally after completing inspection Hilarion would enjoy a cup of wine with Alexios over a bite to eat, or he and Lucius might go for a little wander into town. But Lucius was off on the chase and Alexios was at the beck and call of the Praepositus – nowhere Hilarion wanted to be. He leaned against the gatehouse, sword and polish at hand. Dawn had been nasty enough; by mid-morning there was freezing rain that penetrated through multiple layers of wool. By afternoon, winds drove the rain and even his wolf skin cloak could not prevent Hilarion becoming soaked. Yet still he sat outside, beneath an overhang which provided some shelter to be sure, but precious little. Nonetheless, he maintained his position. Exposed it might be but it overlooked the entrance through which the pursuit would eventually return, with or without their quarry. The chase was taking its time. 

He was, therefore, the first in the camp to see the bedraggled Connla’s arrival, the first to realise the stallion was missing (no need to guess why when a glance at Bericus’ face told the tale). He hovered near the Sacellum, leaning against the one wall with a window. Eavesdropping should be beneath a Centenarius but he just could not help himself. He was glad to have had the forewarning when summoned by Alexios. He schooled his expression, acknowledged his orders deadpan, and saluted before leaving to assemble the Ordo. 

“Javelin practice?” Lucius’ eyebrows arched high as Hilarion explained Alexios had sought to delay the sentence till morning. 

“No, that one would not want any delay,” Lucius said soberly. Carefully, he put away his Georgics. He had been trying to warm himself with a small drink of the local heather liqueur; now he put the stopper in the flask and got to his feet, bottle in hand. “I’ll see to preparing Connla.” 

Hilarion stared out the door after his colleague for a few moments, deep in thought, before he drew his hunting knife from its scabbard at his waist and hid it in his boot. Then he went out to find the Senior Optio and give the necessary orders. 

It was not long before he and Lucius stood to attention before the Praepositus and Ducenarius. 

“Shall I take over, Sir?” Hilarion asked. He had it all planned: he would go to ‘check’ the prisoner’s bonds. That would let him secure Connla's head so it did not loll. Then a quick knife in the ribs would do it in a moment; and if he was clever in how he stood while doing it, that Prick would never even know. 

But instead he watched, horrified, as Alexios boldly despatched Connla and then unsubtly showed his contempt to the Praepositus. Brave - yes; politically astute? Hilarion had expected more from a man with Alexios' connections. Hilarion waited for Montanus to erupt. But the confrontation between the two commanders was sidelined when the Arcani scout was brought forward. 

“Double the watch,” ordered the Praepositus, “and put some men up that old signal tower.” And Hilarion was busy again – really busy, not just makeshift busy while he kept an eye open. He was inspecting the supply of arrows by the north wall when he turned around to find the Senior Optio looking anxious.

“Sir –”

The man swallowed hard. Whatever it was he had to say was clearly bad news. 

“The Arcani are nowhere to be seen, Sir.”

“Druim?” Hilarion asked, for forms sake. He already knew the answer. 

“Cannot be found either, Sir.” 

Hilarion nodded. “Very well, Optio, space the men along the wall, an additional two paces apart. I’ll inform the Praepositus.” 

It was not a task he relished; but delay would not make it any better. Castellum was too small to have a dedicated Valetudinarium. Montanus had designated one of the barracks turned into an infirmary; and Hilarion found him there, being briefed about the preparation of extra bandages and splints. He glowered as Hilarion made his report, but remained calm. Hilarion had expected some vicious comment about the unreliability of local levies; but instead the man was cool-headed and entirely professional. 

“Give orders for some hot food to be provided to all the men before the cook goes off duty,” he was told, “and then you are relieved until Third Watch. Get some rest.” 

Cook provided a warm cup of spiced wine to accompany cold bannock and meat. Hilarion sat on the bench beside Lucius to eat. The man had been here long enough for his cloak to steam slightly. 

“The Arcani have deserted.” 

Lucius shrugged. “Inevitable, I suppose.” He paused before adding, “Has anyone told the Commander?” 

“I just reported to Montanus.” 

“I meant _our_ Commander.” Lucius spoke very quietly. “He must be anxious, knowing which preparations are needed, but unable to contribute.”

“I’ll drop in on my way to my quarters,” offered Hilarion, “and take him some food, too.” 

“No need – I sent a man with a meal to Alexios a good hour ago.” 

Hilarion never got to his bed. Food eaten, first one man asked for orders, then another, and in the end he had only a few minutes to spare to see the Ducenarius before reporting back for duty. Shortly before dawn he lounged in the lee of the South Rampart, dozing, when the horn sounded announcing attack. Then there was nothing but hot excitement, loud yells, smoke and coughing, running and the clash of metal against metal and stone against stone; and, in the end, exhaustion, confusion, and screams of pain from Wolves less fortunate than he. 

“There, Centenarius,” announced the Praepositus, pointing. “See, they are coming from the West this time. 

Once again he stood back to back with another Wolf, dancing with his weapon, laying about him, repelling the attack. Hilarion wiped sweat from his eyes in the next lull. The weather remained foul; but not for nothing was it called the ‘heat’ of battle. 

“They’ve invested the town now,” the Praepositus announced. “Warn the men to expect attack from that direction.” He gestured to Bericus, “You there: go tell Centenarius Lucius over on the North Rampart they’ll come from that direction next.” He strode off to check the South Gate.

The man was mad - a sound soldier - but mad with energy and enthusiasm. Hilarion shook his head slightly to clear the fuzziness from his brain, then, dismissing the Praepositus from his thoughts, sat to clean the blood from his sword. Why that was important he could not remember; the tribesmen were sure to be back before he finished. He hummed as he used a bit of moss to scrub at the blade. Hilarion paused briefly in his task, to watch as Typhon picked his way daintily across the paving stones to join the junior trumpeter at the face of the wall. One grimy hand gave the cat’s ears a quick rub and then the attack was on again, and Hilarion had no time to notice cats as he thrust into his attacker’s ribs. By the time they withdrew again, he was panting heavily, bending over to try and catch his breath. 

“Sir –” It was the Optio again, accompanied by Lucius. 

Hilarion did not bother to straighten, just turned his head to look at the man, and gasped out, “Good news this time, I trust?” 

The grizzled veteran simply pointed. Near the gate an unmistakeable figure sprawled in disarray. 

“Get Alexios,” Hilarion told Lucius. “Tell him he’s in charge again.”

As Hilarion crawled over to where the former Praepositus’ body lay, he felt only relief. Whether the Ordo would survive – whether _he_ would survive – only the Gods knew; but at least, without the burden of this man, they stood a chance.


End file.
